


Under the Light of a Painted Fire

by little_abyss



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Caretaking, Chantry Issues, Complicated Relationships, Feelings, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 01:02:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14509095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss
Summary: When Anders enters the Grand Chantry, all he can seem to see is the ugliness of Kirkwall reflected back at him. Fenris tries to help him remember that there is beauty in the world.





	Under the Light of a Painted Fire

The Chantry towers like a monolith, casting its deep shadow over them. Anders looks up as the little group following Hawke approaches the entrance — he watches as the sun disappears behind one of the spires above. Clenching his jaw against the feeling of rising trepidation, he strides forward with the others.

 

They enter the building through the heavy doors, into the golden hush. Hawke is here to speak to the Grand Cleric, ostensibly as equals, but Anders watches from behind as he bows his head, a supplicant before Andraste. Even Isabela’s swagger changes, becomes more demure. Only Fenris’ gait remains unchanged, the sound of his footfalls muted as he walks behind Anders up the central aisle.

There before them stands the bright yellow-gold statue of Andraste at the centre of the hall, lit by the light of hundreds of candles, as much a paean to excess as anything else; the pews in the front are marble inlaid with gold, deep plush of red velvet on the cushions, every surface reflecting the light. The nakedness of the cupidity on display dismays and appals him, though this is not the first time he’s seen it. He sighs deeply, trying to calm the feeling of Justice roiling within him, closer to the surface of his skin, rolling his thoughts around and in on themselves like fighting snakes.   _Not here, not now_ , he asks silently, and the thought is met with a recalcitrant withdrawal.   _Children starving in the streets, mages imprisoned and executed without trial, people dying in Darktown,_ _robbed of their dignity at the behest of this criminal behaviour…_ it’s a litany, but it brings no comfort, only rage. Anders shivers, clutches his arms around himself, eyes once more on Hawke’s back. He takes another breath, and the feel of the close, incense-laden air in his lungs burns.

 

After Hawke talks with the Grand Cleric — there is no persuading the woman, she’s too mired in the Chantry’s internal politics to see even the ground she walks on is paved with corpses — they go their separate ways.  Hawke grins sadly, clearly forcing a smile and rubs the back of his neck. “I don’t know any other way,” he says, and his lip curls a little before he frowns. “Maker, I feel like my hands are tied. You lot get on with your day, alright?  I’m sorry this turned out to be such a waste of time.”

“It’s no bother to us, sweets,” Isabela says, shrugging, and raises her eyebrow, “Time for a drink?”

“I feel as if I rather deserve one, after that conversation. One, or fifteen.”  Hawke laughs shakily and asks, “Do you two want to come?”

 

“No.  I will stay here.  It… has been a long time.”  

Anders looks at Fenris, his eyes narrowed. The elf has been peculiarly silent lately — he’d figured it for some kind of taciturnity, brought on by a lack of purpose now that Danarius is dead. As he watches Fenris, Fenris cuts his own gaze in Anders’ direction, then away again quickly. “I… believe in the Maker,” he says quietly, cautiously, then shrugs. “I would like some time to… consider that.”

Quietly, Anders clears his throat and nods. “I’ll stay too,” he says, and looks at Hawke, waiting.

 

Hawke looks between them, his expression worried. He seems as if he will argue, then shrugs and inclines his head, smiling ruefully at them. “Suit yourselves, then,” he says, then turns to walk with a heavy tread after Isabela, down to the Hanged Man.  Fenris watches him leave, and with his eyes still on Hawke says softly, “You do not need to stay, mage. I’m sure you have patients.”

 

He recognises the dismissal.  But instead of taking the opportunity, Anders once again shakes his head again and says, “It’s been a long time for me, as well.”

Fenris frowns, then nods.  He turns and pads away, up the aisle to the altar in the narthex of the building, toward Andraste’s feet.  Anders watches as he looks up at her, peers up into the rafters, and his shoulders seem to sag. Fenris looks around, almost as if he is at a loss, and Anders walks slowly up the aisle to join him.  “Mage,” Fenris mutters, once Anders has drawn level with him, “I would… I do not know what to do. It has been too long, and I do not know the rituals of the White Chantry. I do not wish to appear a fool.”  

 

He sounds bitter, and lost.  Anders blinks and chances a look at Fenris from the corner of his eye.  “You don’t need to do anything. You can just sit and contemplate if you want.  There aren’t really any rules when there’s no service taking place.” The elf is still gazing upward, but his face is a mixture of strange emotions; confusion, and a strange breed of satisfaction.  He looks at Anders then, and whispers, “She is not a mage.”

“No.  Not here,” Anders says, grimacing, and gestures to the pew closest to them.  Fenris follows as he makes his way to the seat. He can feel the elf’s presence at his back, the weight of that green gaze.

They sit in silence for a while, until Fenris begins to shift on the plush velvet of the seat.  He is still gazing upward, and frowning at something before he speaks, “In Tevinter, they do not have those.  The paintings. What are they for?”

Anders looks up into the dim depths of the vaulted ceiling and considers the depiction.  “Allegorical scenes. Depictions of stories from the Chant of Light. Many of the faithful can’t read; not here. And this is a Chantry that parades its wealth, which is why those paintings are so big. They’re just supposed to help teach the poor and uneducated the Chant of Light.  For all it may do any good. The Chant of Light can’t fill a belly; it cannot clothe a child; it breaks no-one’s chains.” He pauses, feels the tears close, and the tiredness, the stupid, utter futility of it all, which Justice quickly smothers with that seemingly ever-present rage.  He tries, in turn, to flatten it, brush the embers aside, squeezes his eyes shut against it. 

 

And then, soft, strange, he feels a calloused hand take his.  His eyes fly open, and he sees Fenris staring at him. “You are right,” he says quietly, “The Chant is just words. But look up, please look up. Tell me what you see. If it is alright with you for me to touch you in this way, concentrate on that. And tell me of the pictures above.”

“I… I’ll try.”  Anders sighs, rubs his thumb over the knuckle of Fenris’ index finger, and asks, suddenly worried, “It doesn’t hurt? Holding my hand?”

“No.  It does not hurt,” Fenris tells him softly. “You do not have to, if it makes you uncomfortable. I just… I just thought…”

“No,” Anders says, “No. I… it’s fine.”

Slowly, Fenris nods. His eyes are luminous in the low golden light, and after a moment more, he shifts his gaze upward. Anders watches him, a worried expression on his face, and then remembers Fenris’ request and looks up as well.

 

He concentrates, peering upwards toward the rafters, and says, “The one directly above us is Hessarian.  He’s stabbing Andraste on the pyre with his sword, giving her the gift of mercy.”

“Yes. What colour is his robe?”

“Sort of… black? It seems to have little stars on it… like a shape, a constellation, maybe. It looks a little like Judex. Or… or a Templar ensign.” 

“Interesting. And the fire?”

“Well…” Anders hesitates, making a face, his neck craning. Then he sighs. “It’s just fire. Yellow and red. It’s about halfway to Her hip, but Hessarian is almost stepping into it to get to her.” Anders huffs a reluctant laugh as the thought  _ Bet that singed his knickers _ flits across the surface of his mind.

 

After a moments more consideration, he sighs. “He sentenced her to burn, and then… he had a crisis of faith, I suppose.  He was an archon of the Imperium… but…”

“You are about to say something like  _ I suppose you already knew that _ .”  Fenris is quiet for a time, and the only sound is the faint susurrus of hundreds of tiny candleflames. Eventually, though, Fenris speaks again. “Your people.  The Anders. Are they not very famous for their religious art?”

Anders nods.  “Yes. They’re… not really my people though. I’ve never been to the Anderfels. But from what I’ve heard, the Anders are often exploited for their talent.  Agents from Orlais especially, take art from the Anderfels, from the artists who make it and…” He clenches his eyes closed again and Fenris tightens his grip.  

“I am here.”

Anders holds his breath, struggling briefly, then covers his mouth with his free hand. Tears spring to his eyes, he squeezes them closed tighter and a quiet sob escapes him.  _ I am here _ , those three words, they mean so much… but it’s too little, too late. He takes a few shaking breaths through his fingers and slowly drops his hand. Finally, he takes one slow, deep breath and opens his eyes. He sighs, then tries to smile. “I’m sorry. I’m fine.”

 

Fenris looks at him steadily for a long moment, there in the fiery glow of the candles.  He seems to study Anders, to take in the whole of his being just with this look, and then he smiles strangely.  Anders sighs again, glad that Fenris has not relinquished his hand, and asks, “How did you know to do that? Get me to concentrate on the pictures?”

Fenris swallows and averts his eyes.  “Long practice. It was my way to… ground myself in remembered images, to think of every detail, to see it in my mind's eye.  As a… distraction.”

“From the pain?  Of your markings?”

“Yes.  And… other things.  I sought to distract myself from the ugliness around me by remembering in every detail sights of great beauty.”  He snorts in derision and glances upward, “Not of this sort of thing; of the shafts of sunlight through the trees, of the piling of thunderheads on the horizon, of…”  Fenris seems to recall himself and shakes his head, then grits his teeth. 

 

The words for what he wants are on his tongue, ready for Anders to use them — but they’re poison. It’s better to have these feelings out, surely, but Anders swallows them anyway.  It would be too much to say them, and for all he knows, just as unwelcome for Fenris to hear them as it would be for him to give voice to the sentiment. And he does not have time, he has no time to spare for this, whatever this could be.  And yet… and yet, he will not know if he does not say something, he feels as if here, under the dying gaze of Andraste, in the house of the Maker who abandoned them, it could be his last opportunity. “Fenris,” Anders says, and his voice hitches on the name, “I…”

 

But the words will not come. So he swallows again and shakes his head, and they sit, together in their silence.


End file.
